‘Idiot. Lucy’s guts ached with jealousy and bitterness, building in a knot that twisted in her stomach, rag-like. But don’t run away with the idea that I’m hanging out for a wife at last, because I’m not. How does one get work? She walked along the Strand and across Trafalgar Square, and by the Haymarket to Piccadilly, and so through dignified squares and palatial alleys to Oxford Street; and her mind was divided between a speculative treatment of employment on the one hand, and breezes—zephyr breezes—of the keenest appreciation for London, on the other. “And me. I would be chased by every curious party on this planet, by vampireseekers, by witch-hunters, by researchers, you name it. “Should I leave? Sounds like she is running out of food.
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